


The Second Time

by Anythingtoasted



Series: Five Times Dean and Cas Snuck Around [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Times, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Phone Sex, Schmoop, Shameless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part 2 of 'five times dean and cas snuck around'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Time

His phone buzzes in the space between his seat and the passenger’s while he’s driving, and at first he doesn’t think anything of it. It’s probably Cas, away for the moment in some dank corner of the country, doing his own thing; either that or it’s Garth or Kevin, updating him on the state of the world (not that he needs it; he already knows it’s shitty). Sam looks at it dully, gaze drawn away from the window. “Want me to get it?” He picks it up before Dean can reply. “It’s a picture message,” and even then, alarm bells don’t start going off. It’s only when Sam says “It’s from Cas. Huh.” That terror grips the base of his spine and he darts his hand out to snatch the phone from Sam’s grip, jolting a surprised “Hey!” from Sam in the process.

He doesn’t explain himself – there isn’t really a good excuse he can think of – and as surreptitiously as he can, he opens the text message and flicks his gaze at the contents. “ _Jesus,”_ he chokes when he sees it, unable to stop himself. Sam is staring at him oddly, has been the whole time, and when Dean hurriedly closes the message, picture of Cas’ hard dick receding within the depths of the phone, he has trouble meeting his brother’s eyes.

“Picture of his hotel room. He’s so weird,” he laughs awkwardly, and Sam looks dubious but doesn’t ask questions, shrugging instead and turning back towards the window. Dean slips the phone into his pocket, and ignores the subsequent buzzing, proud of the vestiges of self-control he never knew he had.

—-

Those vestiges crumble pretty quickly once they roll to a stop at the mid-point motel.

Dean gets out of the car noticeably faster than usual, and when they rent a room he spends a fruitless period of time trying to figure out a good way to get Sam to rent two instead of one. He can’t think of a good reason – ‘ _Cas’ dick is driving me insane’_  doesn’t seem like a viable one, considering Sam has no idea they do this shit – and so he ends up sending Sam out for food the minute they get into the room, enduring Sam’s unnerved gaze for as long as it takes to push him out the door, then locking it behind him and going straight for his phone.

Cas, contrary to his large blue eyes and innocent head-tilt fish out of water vibe, is the filthiest mother fucker Dean has ever met; and finally, here on his phone, is solid proof.

Solid being the operative word. Cas has sent him no less than seven picture messages, probably costing himself a fucking fortune, all of them of himself in various states of undress; a full-length picture of Cas in front of the mirror in his motel bathroom, shirt hanging open, a hand wrapped around his dick, the other holding the phone. Several images of his dick alone, which in concept seemed not all that exciting to Dean, but in practise makes heat flare at the base of his body, makes spit gather in his mouth. He reasons that he’s not entirely to blame for that; Cas has a nice dick, long and nicely curved, and Dean knows from experience that what he can do with it isn’t to be dismissed quickly, either.

He scrolls through the pictures a couple of times, smiling softly; fires off a text to cas, ‘ _asshole.’_

Cas replies so quickly it would be embarrassing on anyone else; ‘ _I miss you’_ nothing else, no apology, and Dean swallows harder than he did about the pictures, heat flaring again, but elsewhere. Filthiest, sappiest motherfucker and Dean has somehow ended up on the other end of his hook, utterly lost. He wonders if this was heaven’s plan somehow; if Cas was supposed to pull him out of hell, fuck his life sideways until he was unrecognizable, make him love it as it happened. Make him love  _Cas._

He says none of this in reply; just texts back, ‘ _I can tell’_ smirking to himself, and Cas replies as quickly as before,  _‘are you alone’_.

He sighs and sits on the bed with his phone held between his knees. Texts back, as morosely as he can convey,  _‘no :(’_

Cas will laugh at that, he knows; the concept of emoticons fascinates him, human innovation always his foremost interest. Dean gets a picture message in reply, just a picture of Cas’ face pulled into a frown, and he snorts a laugh so violently that he almost drops his phone, scrubbing a hand across his face.

‘ _Call u later.’_

Cas just sends him back  _‘;)’_ , and Dean wonders how Cas managed to grasp irony over text quicker than he managed to learn how to recognise sarcasm in real life; such is Cas, always a fucking mystery, though his intent here is pretty fucking obvious.

Dean scrolls through the pictures a couple more times, conversation with Cas effectively over (although he does get treated to another message after that, Cas naked and looking pissed off; Cas has a talent for making him laugh even as his dick starts taking interest, something he hopes isn’t going to start giving him some kind of pavlovian-response boner every time he finds something funny); Sam comes back about twenty minutes or so later, and Dean realises he lost track of time while he was gone, smiling – for fuck’s sake – at old conversations between him and Cas.

Sam gets back in, throws the food at him – Chinese, this time; Sam always chooses Asian food when Dean lets him pick – and doesn’t ask questions about why Dean is staring at his phone and smiling when he gets in. Dean thinks the conversation is coming though, thinks it’s waiting on Sam’s tongue whenever he gets that funny look about him, kinda wistful and pitying and glad, at once.

Dean ignores that look, ignores the tiny voice in his head whispering  _just tell him,_ and puts his phone away, slides it into his pocket just as Cas (probably) sends him another picture. He peers at the container of food and then looks back up at Sam.

“Duck?”

“All they had.”

“Cool.”

—-

He treads carefully out of the room when Sam is asleep, shutting the door carefully behind him. Walks fast across the parking lot to the car, which he unlocks as soundlessly as he can. He puts the key in the ignition, starts up the car, gets the heater going; the inside of the car is fucking freezing, damp as hell and about the last place any sane person would choose to be at gone midnight, but – well, maybe Dean’s always been a little too gone on Cas to consider his own discomfort.

He fumbles the phone out of his pocket, nervous for reasons he can’t really ascertain, relishing the blast of air in his face as the heater starts to really get going, fogging up the windows with condensation, making this thing look about as seedy as he supposes it is.

He texts Cas,  _‘busy?’_ and doesn’t have to wait two seconds until Cas phones him. The voice on the other end is muggy, from sleep or whatever the hell Cas has been doing in between this conversation and their last; Cas says, “Dean,” pleasant and languid and warm, and Dean shifts in his seat, grinning uncontrollably.

“Hey,” he smiles around the word; feels like a dork, but there’s no one here to see him now, and he doesn’t exactly care if Cas knows he’s glad to hear his voice; Cas always sounds  _thrilled_ to hear from him, disproportionately so, smile audible even down the lines of a phone. “What’re you doing?”

Cas makes a noise, half yawn, half shrug; Dean can hear sheets rustling down the line. “Sitting in bed,” he says, and Dean almost snorts; of course he fucking is. “You?”

“In the car,” he says, biting down on a laugh for no reason. “You have a good day?”

“Mm,” Cas yawns again, or just makes another noise, but it’s self-indulgent and unrestrained and it makes Dean’s pants feel just that little bit tighter, “I miss you.”

“You said.”

“I don’t think I could overstate it.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Were you bored?”

“Mostly. Television is very repetitive,” he sighs; he sounds tired, but that makes sense, considering how late it is. He says then, voice thicker, “You never bore me.”

Dean chuckles; Cas huffs a breath in reply; but it sounds different this time. Dean clears his throat. “What’re you wearing?” He means it as a joke, but realises Cas won’t know that, doesn’t know it’s a cliché. Cas answers immediately, and Dean thinks he was right in his suspicions; Cas has started without him, breaths just that little bit faster, just like they always are when something’s happening to his dick.   

“Nothing,” Cas mumbles down the phone, and Dean closes his eyes and tips his head back against the seat.

“Really?”

“Why would I lie?” Cas replies, sounding honestly baffled even though his voice is so low it must be somewhere around his ankles by now; at the very least, it’s wrapped around Dean’s dick.

“I didn’t think you were-” he trails off, laughing, and leans the phone between shoulder and ear so he can get his jeans open and shove a hand into his boxers, half-hard already. He shuffles in his seat, pulling himself out properly, jeans and underwear looped around his thighs. “Whatever. Cas, are you,” he always gets a little nervous here, little embarrassed; Cas is good at this because he has no shame whatsoever, but for Dean it’s something he always finds awkward at first. “Are you touching yourself, Cas?”

Cas makes a warm, rolling little noise that Dean takes as assent; he grips himself more firmly, tugs on his dick a couple of times and lifts his hand to spit into his palm so it glides better when he takes hold of himself again, thumbing at the head to get himself wetter. Just barely, he can hear slick noises on Cas’ end; the blur of TV-speech, and Cas’ hand on his own cock, just from the sound of Dean’s voice. Fuck.

“You miss me, huh?” he says; Cas laughs softly.

“Mm. Very much.”

“That why you spent the whole fucking afternoon sending me pictures of your cock?”

Cas inhales sharply, “No, those were for Sam.”

“You piece of shit,” but he’s laughing, and it’s everything – he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s tired, or because he hasn’t seen Cas in about a fucking week, but he feels everything – this rush of mirth and longing and love, the slow unwind of want in his gut, all at once, like a wave crashing over him. He works his hand faster, closing his eyes, and mumbles, “Jesus, Cas, wait til I fucking see you,” without any particular plan – and then he thinks of it for real; what he can do when they’re together again, how good it always is. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t fucking  _see.”_

Cas, to his credit, doesn’t take him literally – or if he does he doesn’t mention it, just says _“Dean,”_ gasping, and his breaths speed, rasping down the line. “Dean, please,” he says, more quietly, and Dean groans in response, hand slick and wet, getting wetter.

“I love you so fucking much,” he mumbles desperately, and it is far from the first time he’s said it, but he thinks he might have meant it more in the moment than he ever has before; it felt easier than every other time, push of his lungs and then released, words uncomplicated, easy. He loves him; loves his body, loves his hands, loves his fucking ridiculous, lazy, snarky bastard heart. Cas makes a noise as if all the air has gone out of him, choked and desperate; he says Dean’s name three times in succession, and Dean can hear how much slicker everything is as Cas strokes himself through it, noise wet and heady in his ear. “You asshole,” he says it and laughs – Cas laughs, too – “I love you.”

And that is it, spurred on by nothing but the image of him – Cas, so caught up in him, in _Dean,_ that he’s still breathing raggedly and making soft keening sounds. Dean follows him after, spilling over his fist, head tipped back as far as it’ll go. He hopes to god no one is around because if they are they’ll have seen him – eyes squeezed shut and prickling wet, fist moving slower and slower as he ekes out the last.

There’s a long pause as Dean regains his breath – Cas mumbles something he doesn’t catch over the roaring in his ears. “What?”

“Love you too.”

“Oh,” he chuckles softly. “Yeah.”

Cas sighs, long and exhausted; Dean hears the sheets shuffle, and thinks maybe Cas is tucking himself beneath them. Pathetically, he wishes he were there to do it, join him; he loves sex, fucking loves it, but curling close to Cas’ sleeping body isn’t exactly the worst thing.

“Just five days,” Cas says softly, echoing Dean’s thoughts, and he sighs.

“Too fucking long. What have you done to me?”

Cas hums. “I could ask you the same question.”

There’s a pause; Cas mumbles his name, then says, “I really do miss you.”

“I know. I miss you too.”

“Did I embarrass you, earlier? Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” he says, a little too quickly. “No. I mean –  _no.”_

Cas is laughing down the line. “Well. Good.”

He pauses, debating just staying out here all night, Cas’ warm breath huffing in his ear; then sighs. “I gotta go. I don’t want Sam to wake up and see that I’m gone.”

“Okay,” he sounds a little disappointed, but not overly.  _Five days_. “I love you.”

“Yeah, you said,” but he mumbles, “Love you too,” all the same.

—-

Back on the road in the morning he gets another text, and thankfully manages to grab it before Sam can. It’s Cas again, of course, the picture gratuitously filthy; he might have known that Cas as a human would turn out to be the least classy human being who ever lived.

But attached to the photo is a message,  _just five days,_ and it makes him smile all the way down the road. 


End file.
